Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The Barracks were a return to normalcy after strange circumstances, and Deimos craved the opportunity and chance to unfurl and unravel those liberating effects of magic. Before long, he’d gathered multitudes of his constituents out in the colder ventures of the open portions, past climbing walls and into the formation of wide-open spaces and an endless sky, surrounded by icy endeavors and pockets of snow. “First one to hit the target,” of which he’d sent upwards on a string of Air enchantments and mischief, “Can have one patrol evening off,” a modest and inspiring challenge, he thought, and he could always fill in the empty slot.But that proved to be tricky, purposefully, for the masses, as he dragged the floating effigy back and forth with unpredictable factions. Lightning flashed and missed. Fire encountered nothing. Water fell in vague rivulets, and hordes of frustrated faces and features either glowered at him or the target itself. All the while, the Sword wore a content and amused smile, teasing and taunting and allowing his mind to not be filled with the unknown, vague mysteries from the Peepholes.
Eventually, one of the soldiers did manage to chunk off a piece with another flicker of elements, and there was an uproar of victory and laughter, and so Deimos began to lower the constituents, now with one less leg.
